Sunday, July 21, 2013

When I was at the store buying groceries which included a
bottle of wine, the cashier asked to check my driving license.I don't flatter myself that I'm being carded
because I look under-age but it always makes me smile.The cashier, who couldn't have been more than
seventeen or eighteen herself, looked at my card, then at me...back at the
card, at me again...and blurted out,

"Whoa, you look good for your age!"

Her eyes widened with horror as she realized that she'd said
something potentially offensive and she slapped her hand against her mouth to
shut herself up.I laughed aloud at her
obvious train of thought.

"God, I'm real sorry, " she said, "I didn't
mean it like that..."

"It's okay, I know you didn't," I reassured her.

"I meant it as a compliment!"

"No worries, I know you did..."

"I'm real sorry, ma'am.OMG, my mom would kill someone if they said that to her."

"I took it as a compliment," I said, "Now,
put it out of your mind."

"Are you
British?" was the follow-up, and I was pleased to change the subject.

But I thought about it in the car on the way home, how
difficult we find it to say, "You look good," without adding
"for your age."And I
remembered a similar occasion, perhaps ten years ago.

I was in Sally's Beauty Supply.I had a fierce summer cold which had kept me
in bed for several days and which had given me itchy, bloodshot eyes; a
swollen, beet-colored nose; dry, cracked lips; and a cold sore the size of India.The grey roots of my hair had needed
attention for ages and displayed over an inch of old-age for the world to
see.In an effort to raise my spirits, I'd
decided, probably foolishly, that I would shampoo a red rinse through my
lifeless rats-tails.

There was a line at the cashier counter because the young
female "associate" hadn't mastered the till yet and was totally
frazzled.I reckon she was maybe sixteen
years-old.When she came to serve me,
she took my Clairol Hair Color (auburn) and said,

"You got a Sally's card?"

You know, I probably did possess such a card but with a bunch of disgruntled frogs scratching at my throat, I didn't feel like talking
so I just shook my head.And then came
the infamous, never-to-be-forgotten line:

"Do you want the discount?"

What discount?Hadn't
she just offered me a discount with the Sally's card?Was there another discount on the actual
product?I shrugged at the teenager and
said gruffly, "What discount?"I knew my words were almost unintelligible so I turned to the lady behind me to see if she were any the wiser.She wore a sympathetic expression but was biting her upper lip in an effort not to laugh.She put her hand on my arm as she turned to the assistant.

"Sweetie, never ask a woman if she wants the
discount.If she wants it, she'll ask
for it."

"What discount?" I repeated to the friendly woman
in the queue.

"Well, um," she smiled kindly, "she asked if
you wanted the senior discount."

"The senior discount...how old do you have to be to get
the senior discount?"

Still suppressing a laugh, she shook her head. "Sorry, honey, but you have to be
fifty-five."

My head was so fuggy, I could hardly take in the fact that
this teenage assistant thought I looked like a senior citizen when I was only
forty-five, but it was clear that the youngster was not really aware that she'd
said anything wrong.She carried on with
the business at hand.Me, I went back to
bed for two full days.

When I consider it now, I'm struck but how unimportant age
is, how it's only significant if you believe it to be; or, at least, (if you
disregard the accompanying aches and pains) how it's simply a matter of
perspective.Earlier this year, my
delightful, beloved ex-husband, John, was tremendously excited about his upcoming
birthday because, at age sixty-two, he was finally going to be allowed into
Barton Springs pool for $1.On his
birthday, he went to Barton Springs, proudly announced through the glass at the
pool kiosk, "One...at the senior
citizen rate, please," and the young man on duty didn't look up, never
questioned him, didn't even register his existence.He didn't care one way or the other.John was rather disappointed there wasn't
anyone to acknowledge how old he was; or more specifically, how good he looked for his
age.

So perhaps it's better to be who you are with no concern for
your actual age.Better not to worry about
what anyone else thinks; now there's a thought!People will always see you differently from the way you see yourself, if
they see you at all."What other
people think of you is none of your business!" the adage goes.All that counts is how you feel about
yourself.Also, as demonstrated by the
boy at the pool, no one really cares anyway.And as long as you get the discount if you want it, why should you care?

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

When you can't speak the language or read the papers or mix with the locals or even walk the streets of the place you call home, it's difficult to find out what's going on around you. In such a closed world, hearsay and gossip are often all that's available to keep you informed. Bearing that in mind, I share an anecdote based on memories + fact + buzz + imagination.

Libya had many public holidays when I lived there (it
still does, if recent calendars are anything to go by) and these fell into two
categories: religious and political. The Muslim festivals were timed
according to local sightings of various phases of the moon, and dates were not
definite until quite close to the occasion, slightly annoying when one was
trying to plan an event. During the lunar month of Ramadan, Muslims fast
during the day and eat at night. It always seems to me that life during
Ramadan, which ends in the Eid al Fitr holiday, is basically "life
up-side-down," i.e. relax, rest and sleep in the daytime; eat, socialize,
and celebrate at nighttime. I'm not sure what was supposed to happen at
AGIP regarding office hours during the holy month; our local staff were
conspicuously absent on Ramadan work days!

At times of fasting,
every-day business routines are often affected. In Tripoli, this meant, from an expatriate
perspective, that all the super-souks, local shops and bakeries were shut
throughout the day. As the secretaries had no transport, and our only
chance for food hunting was during our lunch-hour, Ramadan routines reduced our
"grocery shopping" opportunities to nil.

The non-religious holidays
were celebrations of events connected with Gaddafi's reign as Leader.
March 28 was British Evacuation Day; June 11 was American Evacuation Day; and
October 7, Italian Evacuation Day. Another date that was always acknowledged
was 1st September, a date so important that "1st September Street," a
main road leading to Green Square, was named for it.

With thanks to various
on-line sources, especially the BBC, here's a little history lesson:

On 1st September 1969,
a group of military officers (among them, a 27 year-old Muammar Gaddafi)
deposed King Idris of Libya
in "a bloodless coup." They seized power and declared the
country a republic. While the king, who was in Turkey
at the time, dismissed the coup as "unimportant", troops and tanks
converged on Tripoli
in the early hours of that morning. Within two hours, they'd taken key
positions and the royal palace, military and security headquarters were taken.
All communications with the outside world were cut and a curfew was
imposed.

The military junta
renamed the new regime the Libyan
Arab Republic.
The coup was sudden and came as a surprise to the rest of the
world. At the time, the US
had a large airbase in Libya;
Britain
was involved in important engineering projects there and was also the country's
biggest supplier of arms. The new Libyan officials assured Britain that no
harm would come to their good relationship. The Revolutionary Command
Council which took over running the country, issued a statement declaring the
aim of the revolution was "unity, freedom and socialism".
However, it also warned that all and any attempts to overthrow the
revolutionaries would be "crushed ruthlessly and decisively".

Apparently, the coup
passed off with only a handful of shots being fired (hence
"bloodless") and was welcomed initially as a reaction to what were
seen as the pro-Western policies and corruption of the monarchy.
Thousands took to the streets to demonstrate their support. When
the new cabinet was announced, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi was named commander in
chief of the armed forces. He took the title of prime minister in January
1970, and his power grew incrementally from then on.

Saturday 1st September
1984 was therefore the fifteenth anniversary of the Coup D'Etat which put
Colonel Gaddafi in power. Although I have no diary entries or letters to
back up this story, I'll share what I remember of the rather dramatic official
festivities that year!

In the weeks preceding the
1st September public holiday, our minibus driver, Musbah, veered off our usual
route from the expatriate camp -- or Stalag 99, as we called it -- to the AGIP
offices in downtown Tripoli and took us on a different one. Instead of
taking the main road -- Gurgi Road,
if my memory serves -- he went along a newly-opened section of the municipal
beach road. Although he couldn't speak English, it was plain from his
gesticulations and general manner that he was proud of what was happening on
this brand spanking new stretch of road. The high banks alongside it were
being packed with flowering plants. Hundreds of workers were digging and
raking with gardening tools, or on their haunches planting these gorgeous
flowers. The workers appeared to be non-Arab contract labor as far as I
could see from our speeding bus -- Indian, Filipino, Sudanese -- but I don't
know enough about Libya's labor force at that time to tell you if that is
correct; it's simply my observation. What was clear is that much
work had already been done to create this wide seafront boulevard and all that was left to do, the final phase, was to tarmac the surface.
Evidently, huge amounts of time, money and effort had been given to get this thoroughfare
looking its best.

When we asked our Italian
colleagues and English friends what this was all about, they passed along what
they'd heard: that the new beach highway was to be incorporated in a vast
presentation of Libya's
armed forces, a demonstration to flaunt its war power. This exhibition
would take place during the day on 1st September 1984, to celebrate the
fifteenth anniversary of the coup.

We understood there was to
be an air show with dramatic and daring flying displays; demonstrations of
artillery, weaponry, armored cars and tanks; military parades with marching
soldiers and brass bands. It was to be an all-out display of military
strength and firepower to show the Libyan people how strong they had become
since Big G took control, and to prove to the world that Libya was a
force to be reckoned with under the G-man's rule.

As we secretaries were on
summer hours, we finished work at 2:00 p.m. on Thursday 30th August and on our
drive back to the camp, we saw the now completed piece of road, resplendent
with its gleaming black tarmac finish and its bright, sunny flowerbeds. I
could appreciate Musbah's pride. It really was a remarkable achievement.

The AGIP girls, all
English, were advised not to leave Stalag 99 on 1st September. It would
be best for us to stay at home and keep out of the way of Libyan locals who may
be overwhelmed by the occasion and seize an opportunity to prove first-hand
their might over representatives of their political adversaries, i.e. a bunch
of British ladies. According to my journal, it's obvious that we girls --
at least, this one -- decided to follow the safety recommendations. I
entertained a small group of friends for lunch at my tiny "beach
apartment," and in the evening, we took a roundabout route to play tennis
at the Australian camp. We kept out of the downtown area altogether.

During the day-light
hours, we heard the military planes and jets whooshing overhead and
occasionally we stepped outside to see them pass. We could hear gunfire
in the distance. On a conscious level, we didn't take much notice.
Subconsciously though, I tended to worry about military events of this kind; I
always had a gnawing concern that something could go wrong for which we expats
would get the blame and become the target of retribution. However, I
tried to maintain an air of nonchalance, albeit artificial. One thing I
had learned was that unpredictability was the name of the game, and there was
no point in speculation or anxiety. Worry was a completely wasted
emotion. It would be what it would be.

My journal states that I
went in to work on Sunday 2 September and Monday 3 September; I don't remember
the exact circumstances but I often had to work extra long hours since becoming
secretary to the head man, Mr. Cavanna, and Janice, who worked for Dr. Ageli,
Mr. Cavanna's Libyan counterpart, was on vacation so I was looking after his
office too.

My two days work was
followed by three more public holidays before the weekend.This means that a whole
week of holidays was provided to the Libyan people to acknowledge Gaddafi's
fifteen years in power. Whether this was planned or whether it was as a
result of the events of Saturday 1 September, I have no idea, but here's what I
know.

When I was picked up for
work on that Sunday, the day after the celebrations, Musbah did not take
me along the new beach road. We went via the Gurgi Road, our more usual route.
The next day, the same thing occurred. I didn't immediately question this
because Musbah could be as unpredictable as anyone else; perhaps he was bored
with the new beach road. But Musbah looked unhappy, disgruntled, as if things
were not right in his world. "Musbah," I asked, "why
aren't we going along the new beach road?" Of course he couldn't
understand me so I tried to "gesture" the question, pointing in the
direction of the sea, "Beach road, Musbah, beach road." He dismissed
me in that way of Arab men, turning his head away and ignoring me, as if I
hadn't spoken; actually, like all men, really. When I asked him a second
time, he did a hand gesture, slapping his hands together three times,
left-on-right, right-on-left, left-on right, that hand gesture which says,
"It's over. I don't want to talk about it."

After he dropped me at
Stalag 99 at the end of that second day of work, I had three days holiday and a
weekend day so I wasn't back on the minibus until the following Sunday by which
time rumors of what had taken place on Saturday 1st September had begun to fly.

I understand that the
beach road had been prepared especially for the display of military
vehicles. I can only imagine this next bit because I'm not very knowledgeable
about military events and, let's face it, I wasn't there. However,
picture with me, if you will, armored cars, jeeps, motorcycles, trucks, and
tanks, all lined up and ready to drive along the fabulous new road. Since
the giant, dangerous tanks were the pride and joy of both the fleet and the
occasion, the plan was that they would be the first to set off, with all the
other vehicles following behind, two by two, like the animals on parade,
marching to the ark. It was going to be a grand affair.

The problem was that the
tarmac had only recently been laid on the carefully primed area, and it had not
had time to "set." Thus, the furnace that was the desert
summer sun had broiled, baked, and melted it. I suppose this might well
have happened even if the tarmac had been given ample time to harden.
Either way, it was positively bubbling by the time the tanks began their
majestic rolling march. As a result, the weight of the tanks forced their
thick metal tracks into the molten surface, digging, ripping, churning, until
it was a roiling mass of black gravely tar. This was the ground then,
that every other piece of military hardware had to travel across and in no time
at all, the tanks were stationary in front, glued to the road surface like beetles
in treacle, with a traffic jam (forgive the pun) of unimaginable proportions
right behind them.

Naturally this wasn't
announced in the newspapers but even it had been, it would've been written up
in Arabic so we couldn't have read it. Our Italian colleagues got the
basics from their Arab friends who could speak Italian; we heard it from our
Italian colleagues in their broken English. Other reports filtered back
from English friends who'd heard it from their Tunisian cook, Sudanese gardener,
Egyptian receptionist, etc., etc., etc. Rumors floated about expatriate
offices, ephemeral as specks of dust on the dry Sahara
wind. If there was ever a case of Chinese Whispers...or in this
case...Arabian Whispers, I report it here for your delectation.

Obviously, I can't
guarantee the veracity of this account. To be honest, I'm not even 100%
sure it was the 1st September holiday though all signs point to that being
accurate. I can only vouch for the details I received at the end of the
whisper line, and for my own experience which was that after seeing the
fabulous new beach road before the military display, we never went down that
particular stretch again.

On the following Sunday,
as mentioned above, we returned to work as usual. Janice and Denise were
back from leave and the minibus was full. We all called out in our
assorted English accents, "Musbah, take the beach road! Musbah, we
want to go along the beach road!" but Musbah only crouched over the large
steering wheel of his precious bus, scowling with irritation, staring ahead,
and ignoring us.

Dear Blog Friend

My mum (in England) and I (wherever I happened to be living) used to write each other every week...snail-mail letters, of course. When we both got computers and email became popular, we wrote every day...about everything, from the weather to what our neighbors were doing, from the political situation to popular shows on the telly. When she died, not only did I miss my lovely mum, I missed our regular written conversations; and I lost my daily writing fix. Now I admit the messages were sometimes ridiculously banal but they were often hilarious and always fun to receive. So to start with at least, I'm going to imagine my blog is a note to my mum in the hope that you'll like reading it as much I liked reading her notes to me.